Photo by Susan Young

It started with a question.

But before that, it started in the classroom. Tony Deifell (MBA 2002) loved the discussions in his LEAD course, taught by Professor (and now former Dean) Nitin Nohria; wanting to make them more tangible, Deifell adapted the idea of reflective leadership to an extracurricular exercise. Pulling from the Mary Oliver poem “The Summer Day,” Deifell asked his classmates to answer the question posed in the poem’s last line:

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

Then, drawing on his experience as a professional photographer, he took a close-up, black-and-white portrait of each participant. “Contemplation can have many nuanced emotions within it,” Deifell told Poets & Quants in 2022. “It can have joy, a kind of seriousness; it can have curiosity. These aren’t big smiley pictures for your mom.”

In 2022, the HBS Portrait Project celebrated its 20th anniversary. Watch a video and learn more about its place in the HBS culture.

Since its inception, the Portrait Project has become an increasingly familiar aspect of HBS culture, with graduating students and their families strolling through Spangler to view the current cohort of participants and read their essays. (The number is currently limited to 20; over the years, Deifell has photographed more than 730 students.)

Putting a stake in the ground has its risks when it comes to articulating goals, the unspoken question being, What if I fail to achieve the thing I said I’d do and everyone knows it? But not doing so means turning away from what one cares about and who one is in that moment, says Deifell. “Life happens. Things change. And that’s good storytelling.” Here, five of Deifell’s former subjects revisit their former selves with honesty, humor, and the hard-won perspective of our greatest teacher: time.

CEO and cofounder, Stack Education

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

I will close my eyes. Take a deep breath. And leap. Conscious. Deliberate. Aware. And yes…maybe scared. You see, I am tired of being safe; I am weary of doing what I should; I am exhausted from trying to be what I’m not. So, here I am...ready...

To love fiercely without guarantees, to laugh at inappropriate times, to make my own timeline, to love the messy, chaotic gray instead of the clear black and white.

To smile when I should be sternly serious, to eat pizza at 2 a.m., to only know what today will bring, to buy books instead of food, to leave my bed unmade, to point out to others when their language is exclusive of others, to head bang on the dance floor, to be unapologetically loud, to cry, to trust I can run and win a public office, to sleep until the afternoon, to order ice cream instead of fro-yo, to defy my 4th-grade teacher who told me my “quiet” nature was not well-suited for class vice president, to be a voice for those who do not have one, to make my own expectations.

To hope. To believe.

Eyes wide open. Sometimes a step. Other times a jump. Often a leap.
Lots of leaps as of late.
Always present. Always thoughtful.
Many times heart bursting. Heartbreaking times, too.
Eyes wide open.

I have come to love the space between the leaps. Between the “big” stuff. The moments, fleeting and seemingly small, are the most vibrant. They fill and shape my heart, my memories. The brief cheek-to-cheek snuggle with my one-year-old, before nap time steals him away. Strolling with a friend, swathed in the warm spring evening, catching up on the hard and the beautiful. Riffing with my cofounder—first on the impact of clinical research on health equity and then on the art of gracefully claiming space on public transit. Hucking (soft) balls during an impromptu game of dodgeball with my shrieking nephews. Chatting with my two-year-old niece, her reveling in being understood, me in awe. Dancing exuberantly to “Footloose” with thousands of others at Jazzfest. The tears, the old-friend grief. Being alongside my husband, Chris, when he lost his brother, mother, father, and best friend has made me more laser-focused on the moments of joy.

It’s less about me and more about the we. And the we keeps me leaping. And leaping.

Video Embed

Tony Deifell on the HBS Portrait Project.

Managing Director and Partner, Boston Consulting Group

I am going to rediscover the buffalo.

As a young kid, an elder on my reservation pulled me aside to tell me about the buffalo. He said that prior to contact with settlers, the buffalo provided our food, tools, shelter, clothes, and medicine. After a few hundred years of living on the rez, however, he said that the buffalo as we knew it was gone. In a subtle yet inspiring way, he told me that it was part of our collective life journey to rediscover the buffalo for new ways of living, thinking, and producing.

He wasn’t being literal; it wasn’t our job to lift a gun and go hunt. Rather, it was to discover for oneself what the next buffalo was going to be. My buffalo so far have been education, access to capital, and a network. These all-providing creatures may have physically left a while back, but they seem to be metaphorically returning in droves. Hopefully, I will help steer a herd or two back to Montana.

I left HBS with a mission. As a kid from a rural area of Montana, I wanted to experience the opposite of my childhood, which was barely any lights, no public transportation, and an airport with one gate. I wanted the lights of the city, the bustle of a subway, the noise of a flight taking off from an airport to a new destination.

When I started my career after HBS in management consulting, it fulfilled all those things. I thought it would be for a few years. See the world, pay off some debt, move to the next thing…in pursuit of finding the perfect buffalo to bring back to my home community.

Well, the “perfect” doesn’t exist. And what I was escaping as a kid was what I would eventually really need. City lights don’t pause to ask you how you are doing. Subway cars don’t stop to help you on the side of the road. Airplanes don’t take time to look you in the eye.

Life gets messy—which is both bad and good. Parents have more severe medical issues, some pass away. We get exhausted by the small problems that our small kids have and existentially worried about the big problems our big kids have. We also make new friends, find new hobbies, welcome new pets, and rediscover what gives us joy. Life teaches you that the buffalo you have been seeking is the journey itself. Experiencing, embracing, and passing that on to others is the best way to discover new ways of living, thinking, and producing.

Founder and Chief Navigator, MileZero

I want to be an Ambassador of Ridiculousness.

I’ve lived in fear, running from who I am, hiding and dismissing myself, attempting to be who I think I should be. Terrified of the moment when I will be forced to admit that I’m not in control.

But to be ridiculous is to be honest, unabashed, and fearless. I will smile at strangers as we pass on a cold, gray morning. I will move to the moors of England, write that novel, and treasure every rejection letter as evidence of a dream pursued. I will remain steadfast in my belief that the Cleveland Indians will win a World Series before I die. I will savor a glass of champagne at the end of every day, toasting to family, friends, faith, and time.

I want to help everyone embrace their ridiculousness. To help them passionately give voice to uncommon beliefs. To encourage people to proclaim their dreams as loudly as their successes. To help them find the courage to stop trying to have it all and start having what really matters. To strive to be the moment in someone’s day that, as the dark velvet of night closes in, makes them think “my, that was unexpected” and smile.

Ambassador of Ridiculousness. I think we need one.

With an MBA and a self-appointed Ambassadorship in hand, I set out to be Ridiculous.

I knew who I was, and I would be that person honestly, unabashedly, and fearlessly.

The world had other plans.

No, it wasn’t an unrelenting barrage of toxicity, misogyny, or belittlement. It was the slow, steady, tap-tap-tap of suggestions, feedback, and advice designed to “help me succeed” and be a “better cultural fit.” Every word offered with the best intentions. Every word nudging my ridiculousness into the shadows.

Until one day, all that was left was a successful (almost) cultural fit. Almost, because there was still one, tiny, true piece of me peeking out of the shadows. And when I could no longer fit, I fought.

Fought to be heard, for answers, to do better. It wasn’t hard, I have a lot of (maybe too much) fight in me. But it was tiring. And so the day came to stop fighting and rest.

While resting, I didn’t know who I was or what to do next. But still I rested, making no effort to find answers. The answers found me. Friends returned, family drew closer, and a world of new people and new ideas revealed themselves. Slowly, my ridiculousness returned. I was ready.

Ready to help people give voice to uncommon beliefs, proclaim their dreams, and pursue what really matters. Ready to be the source of someone’s smile at the end of the day and to stand firm in my belief that the Cleveland Guardians will win a World Series before I die.

I’m redefining success and creating my culture—doing the same work I did before but in a way that is truly me. Truly ridiculous.

Chief Business Officer, ElevateBio

Stop!

I must catch my breath and break my fast. Dusk has become irrelevant in an electric, up-tempo world. Dusk still matters to me for 30 days a year, at least. Its arrival marks the end of a day of fasting during Ramadan. Dusk matters because it is a restful moment to reflect on this world we share and to replenish my body (with food) and my soul (with faith).

As for the rest of the year? I pay no attention to the rhythms and cycles of the earth, to the signals begging to be pondered. Will these days continue to pass by me with such extreme velocity? No, I cannot live an unconsidered life.

In the Qur’an, God promised, “In all things, there are lessons for those who reflect.” So this year, I fasted for 117 straight hours. Eating nothing for almost a week, my hunger mounted and my body lagged. In that week, I felt how tenuous this life is; and yet, conquering my most basic desire, I rediscovered that the most important things in this world exist outside my own needs.

Thus, I will pause each day at dusk to reflect with my fellow man and watch the majesty of the sunset across the horizon. And as a result, I will elevate humility, generosity, and gratefulness above all else.

At the end, I hope I can say I slowed down enough to have learned the lessons of this life. I learned the world is filled with infinite signs and blessings, ones as small as the grasshopper.

I am, ostensibly, committed to the pursuit of making medicines, to bringing forth the best of our innovation. I have even played a bit part in a half-dozen new transformational medicines. When I stop to think about it long enough, it feels like a worthy pursuit, but the trouble is I do not stop and reflect. As the days pass by me, it is hard to remember why I am here. Looking back, I was yearning to slow down. I promised myself to “pause at dusk,” to be humble and to be grateful. I was once warning myself of the extreme velocity, but time has made me dizzy with its accelerating, electric buzz.

Now married, with children, knowing a love I could have never imagined, having a joy in my heart like none I have ever felt before, I should be primed to honor the promise I made more than a decade ago to slow down and be grateful for life’s nearly infinite blessings.

It is still true that the most important things exist outside my own needs. In my work, there is almost daily another wonder of science uncovered and the challenge to make those discoveries real. It is not enough to have invented a new way forward for patients: We must never rest till we have brought the best of our innovation to all those in need across the globe. There is so much good in us yet to be done, and we can all play our part if we can heed our innate need to slow down long enough to learn the lessons of this life.

COO, National Institute for Children’s Health Quality

Be happy. Eat mangoes. Pursue my passions. Sing in the stairwell. Laugh like a hyena. Open my heart to love.

Dance as often as possible. Smile frequently. Play soccer until my knees give out. Count my blessings. Be a fantastic aunt. Learn incessantly. Cry when necessary. Question relentlessly. Run the New York City Marathon. Tempt fate. Share my infectious enthusiasm/energy. Lead courageously. Cherish friendships. Help others as I have been helped.

I am a devoted citizen of the world, and studying and working abroad has been my passion since high school. I found my calling in developing projects to assist refugees in Côte d’Ivoire and helping to build small businesses in Vietnam. I’ve strengthened programs that directly and indirectly improved the lives of thousands of people in Africa, Latin America, and Asia.

After traveling and living in 55 countries, I am surprisingly happy living in the United States again. I think I’m ready to make an impact in my own country, among my own people. In many ways the problems are harder and more intractable here, but I am invigorated by the challenge of pursuing my passion for changing the world—and beginning here at home. The world is waiting!

Two decades. Ten million minutes.

I still savor mangoes, laugh loudly, cherish friends, sing in the stairwell with my kids, and dance whenever possible (despite my soccer-legs giving out).

There have been losses: my dad and my brother, almost my mother. I lost a job that I hated and it was incredibly painful, but I learned that my career is more than one job. Happily, there have been many more gains: my amazing husband, remarkable in-laws, my smart, beautiful daughters and nieces, and a wonderful community in Boston. Through long days and short years I have relied on a default to joy as I learn from mistakes: e.g., a concussion and three broken ribs taught me to respect the conditions while skiing.

Working at the intersection of business and community since graduation took me from consulting to corporate social responsibility and now to the nonprofit C-suite in pursuit of impact in the United States. I still feel energized by the challenges but with age has come a bit more patience, with myself and others. Creating durable change is a marathon, not a sprint.

Speaking of marathons, I did two—but the New York City Marathon is still on my list!

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